


Matchmaker Matchmaker

by electricchicken



Series: Maxine Myers: Matchmaker Extraordinaire [1]
Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Other, Pre Canon, season one spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricchicken/pseuds/electricchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maxine decides to set Eugene up some dates. It goes about as well as you’d expect. An AU in which Jack and Eugene don’t meet in a field in Hampshire, but there are still zombies.</p>
<p>Spoilers up to M11, Season One</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matchmaker Matchmaker

**Author's Note:**

> No what I am not finally porting this in from Tumblr to avoid doing the final work on its vastly longer sequel. Why would you say that? That's not even _a thing_.

"I’ve got a list," Maxine announces, swanning into the comms shack with no warning. Never mind that Sam might be doing something dangerous like soldering or — or eating slightly jagged biscuits. 

Or he could be down on his knees under the equipment desk, arse in the air, trying to figure out which of the little black and red wires he’ll have to twist together to hook up the FM antenna on backup radio number three.

That she steals his favourite chair is just insult to injury.

"A list of what?" He tries to turn around under the desk, and pays for it when the crown of his head connects with the particleboard. Nothing for it but backing out. At least the doc’s not the type to stare. Well, not to stare in the way that makes Sam sort of confused and flustered and hot all over. (That he reserves for their new Runner Five, who of course —  _of course_  — has come by and found him in this same position often enough that Sam’s considered asking Janine to rewire the whole shack so the power outlets are at eye level.)

"Boys Eugene could date," Maxine says, tipping back in the chair until it starts to creak. She raises he legs like she might prop them on the desk, must see the way Sam goes pale, and puts her feet back on the floor. One crisis averted. He’s already figured out how easy this rig is to tip over without help.

"You," Sam starts, and isn’t sure how to continue. "What?"

"I was pretty sure he couldn’t be the only gay or bisexual man at Abel," Maxine says, in the same voice Sam’s heard her use to deliver lectures on wound hygiene. "Statistics don’t bear it out. So I did some research."

"What, did you hang round the rations collection point on sausage night, taking down the names of everyone who asked for seconds?"

"Sam," there’s a note of reprimand in her voice. 

"Not funny, right?"

"You want to me explain why?"

"I know, I know," he winces. Almost 48 hours without a bad joke incident and now they’re back to zero again. Try harder, Yao. "Sorry. Tell me about your list."

The look she gives him makes it plain they both know he’s being let off the hook. “We’ve got three names to work with. Two are confirmed, and I’m pretty sure about the third.”

"Confirmed?"

"I have my sources," Maxine says, and manages to keep her expression serious for a good five seconds before she has to stifle a hiccup of laughter in the palm of her hand. 

Oh, he’s not going to ask. Not even a little bit. “So who do we have?”

Maxine fishes a bit of paper out of her labcoat pocket, and even though she’s got the blank side facing towards him it’s worn thin enough for Sam to see the scribbles of blue ink covering the other side.

She raises a finger, ticking off the first name, “First off, there’s Reza, who’s helping build the barracks—”

"Is he the guy who Rajit actually convinced to read his whole novel?"

"You mean the only reliably clean person in the whole township?" Maxine shoots back, maybe a little enviously.

"Sounds like good boyfriend material," Sam agrees. "People like that sort of thing, right? People who smell good?"

"Then we’ve got that new runner, Simon. At least, I’m pretty sure he said he’s interested in men."

"Pretty sure?"

"There was a long bit about his abs in there," she shrugs. "I stopped listening."

Is he clear to make a joke again? He’ll chance it. “Talk about not knowing your audience.”

Maxine claps her hands over her mouth again and doesn’t quite muffle a snort.

"So who’s bachelor number three?" Sam prompts, when she’s still snickering way too many moments later. 

"Oh, right. You know Heilyn Bowen?”

"Wait, no," he doesn’t mean to let out that ridiculously dramatic gasp, but there it is. "Heilyn Bowen, Abel’s top marksman? Shot three zoms with two bullets from the top of the wall Heilyn Bowen? Totally badass killing machine Heilyn Bowen?"

"Sam," Maxine says, folding her arms across her chest. "Do we have to go through the stereotypes lecture again?" 

"You have to set Eugene up with him!" Sam says. "It would be like dating Welsh Chuck Norris." 

"I don’t know if Eugene’s the action hero type," Maxine says.

"Well  _I’d_  date him if I liked guys.” 

"Uh huh."

"I would," Sam tries to look as serious as he possibly can when sitting cross-legged on the floor fiddling with a bit of electrical tape. "Why do you think Eugene needs a boyfriend anyway?"

"I just think he," she trails off and her eyes dart over to the side, "needs something to do with his time."

"Isn’t he helping you at the hospital? That’s doing something."

"Oh, he’s doing something all right," Maxine mutters.

And even if Maxine wasn’t the best friend he’s made since all his other friends and most of his family and most of England got eaten, he’s pretty sure he’d know how to interpret that scowl she’s wearing. “He’s still not any better?”

"His leg is healing fine. Runner Eight and Janine are helping him get used to the crutches." She makes a face, like she’s fighting her impulse to say more. Sam’s pretty sure it’s a front, but leans in and raises his eyebrows to egg her on anyway. "He’s so miserable all the time it’s driving me insane. I have patients who won’t even come by unless he’s out doing errands because they’re worried he’s going to put the evil eye on them."

"He hasn’t seemed that bad," Sam protests.

"Around you, maybe. He barely knows you." She does have a point there. Sam’s not he’s ever talked to him about anything besides the quality of the fava beans that keep turning up in the lunchtime rations. "I think I’d be flattered that I’m getting the full Eugene Woods experience if he weren’t so…"

"Awful?"

"He’s not awful!" She looks embarrassed. Maybe awful’s not as far off as she’d like. "It’s like spending all your time with a sullen teenager who can’t even sell you weed."

"And you said you were only interested in that last haul from Skoobs for medical reasons."

"Focus, Sam," Maxine says. Oh yeah, she’s totally holding out on him. They’re going to have to revisit this later. Sam hasn’t wanted to take the edge off this bad since midterms. And midterms couldn’t actually rip open his head and eat his brains for pudding, much as it felt like it sometimes back at school. "I think we should save Chuck Norris for later. Ease Eugene into things."

"Do you think Eugene even wants a boyfriend?" Sam asks. 

"At this point," Maxine says, "I’d settle for getting him laid."

…

"No way," Eugene says, readjusting a crutch under his arm and turning towards the counter full of mostly-labelled medications he’s been attempting to sort by type while standing, even though Maxine’s offered to move them to her desk (Ikea folding card table, but who’s counting) so he can sit. Even as she wants to shake him, she can’t help but track the movement, feel a swell of pride at how much smoother the motion is than even a week ago. He’ll be okay, this one. So long as she doesn’t end up drowning him in her pump-action sink in the meantime.

"He’s a nice guy," she protests. "And he’s really wants to get to know you better. He’s just shy."

It’s not entirely a lie. Reza’s not the loudest person at Abel. And Maxine hadn’t had to twist his arm that hard to get him to agree to the date. All she has to do is read Rajit’s latest short story and write a detailed report with at least three pieces of criticism and five compliments and turn in her work before sundown. Easy peasy. 

"Why?" Eugene asks. 

"Because," she should have given the cover story more thought when she and Sam were planning this. She should have known Eugene wouldn’t take the bait without some convincing. Some people just can’t accept favours. "He… thinks you’re cute?"

Eugene’s eyebrows knit together. “Why did your voice go up at the end?”

"Just go on the date," Maxine snaps.

"Fine, ok."

"Ok?"

"I’ll go."

"That’s great," she can’t quite keep from clapping her hands together. "You’re going to have a great time."

Eugene just keeps staring at the spread of pill bottles before him with a puzzled frown.

…

"Why can’t we hear them yet?"

"Give it a minute," Sam says, switching over the cameras as Eugene and Reza move from the end of the rations line towards the two-person table Maxine’s arranged to have set up in the farthest, quietest corner of the cafeteria. Not exactly candlelit dinner, but that hasn’t stopped three other Abel couples from putting in requests to use it at tomorrow’s evening meal. "I couldn’t figure out how to bug anything but the table — and you said we couldn’t make either of them wear a headset."

"What are they doing now?" Maxine scoots her chair closer to the screens, until Sam has to lean around her to see. The picture’s not great, too dark and a little grainy, but they’ve managed to mount the camera at a decent angle. So long as no one slouches, it’s even picking up bits of expressions. 

"It still can’t believe Janine let me install surveillance equipment in the mess hall," Sam says. "You think she’s got an ulterior motive?"

"Almost certainly," Maxine says, but he can tell she’s not listening. "Look, they’re sitting down. Can you turn up the volume?"

"In a second," he nudges her side with his shoulder, trying to make space for his arm. No dice. She doesn’t even move. "Doc, I need to get to the keyboard."

"Oh, right." She leans back just the bare minimum, eyes still trained on the screen. "He carried Eugene’s tray. That’s sort of sweet, right?"

She’s getting that look Sam last saw during a weirdly competitive game of Chutes and Ladders in the rec tent. Best not to point out Eugene’s crutches. “Yeah. Sweet. Let me get the sound up.”

'The sound' being an old headset sellotaped to the bottom of the table, everything comes in a bit murky. But for what he's got to work with, Sam's well chuffed. 

"…for dinner?" Eugene’s asking.

"Beans, looks like." Reza’s voice is softer through the speakers. Headset must be too far over towards Eugene’s side. "With cream crackers."

"Think there’s any chance they put seasoning on them after taking them out of the can tonight?"

In lieu of an answer, Reza spoons a mouthful of what kind of look like tinned wax beans into his mouth. The silence as he chews seems long, even on this end. “Don’t think so.”

"Damn." Eugene fiddles with the little cellophane packet of crackers, but doesn’t make to open it.

Reza eats another spoonful of beans.

Eugene cracks the top on a bottle of water and takes a sip.

More beans.

"Shouldn’t they be talking more?"

"Maybe they need something to break the ice," Maxine suggests, frowning at the screen. 

"Got any ideas?"

"How about I go in there and kick Eugene in the ass?" she sighs, bracing her elbows on the desk and cupping her chin with her hands.

"It would make pretty good television, anyway," Sam says. "We could turn this into Abel’s first reality tv show."

"I think we can stand to lose reality tv to the apocalypse, thanks."

On the screen, Eugene’s poking at his beans with the tip of his spoon, but still hasn’t made a move to eat them. “So, you’re the guy that actually read Rajit’s book, right?”

"That’s me."

"Any good?"

"I’ve read worse," Reza says. Another pause, and Sam’s starting to get where those furrows in Maxine’s forehead are coming from. "You were a writer weren’t you? I thought I heard someone say that."

"Food journalist, though, not a novelist." 

"You must love the food around here, then."

"Yeah it’s…" Eugene pokes at the beans again, "not great. Beats eating wild plants though."

"Makes sense."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to see if there’s anything better playing on any of the other channels?" Sam suggests. "I think there’s a pack of zoms milling around neat the hospital. Could be fun?"

"Maybe a meal is too much pressure for a first date," Maxine says, though it’s not clear if she’s talking to him or not. "Should I have have suggested coffee?"

"We don’t have coffee,"  Sam says, wistful.

"Right," she sighs, taps her fingers against her cheek. "I guess going out for mugs of boiling water doesn’t have the same ring."

"You could do Scrabble next time," Sam suggests. "I think Runner Two brought back almost a full set for the rec."

"Can I ask you something?" Eugene says, metallic edge of his voice through the speakers enough to make both of them jump in the comms shack. On the view screen, Sam can see he’s leaned across the table, head tilted as close to Reza’s as he can get without standing up. Maxine’s doing the same pose, nose only a half inch from the monitor. Any closer, and Sam’s going to have to get out the polishing rag before the next run.

Reza sets his spoon down. “What?” 

Eugene scoots his chair a little closer, leans a little farther — and looks right past his date, into the camera Sam has admittedly done a pretty poor job of hiding, now that he thinks about it. “Did Dr. Myers put you up to this?”

Maxine lets out a series of syllables Sam doesn’t think he’s ever heard strung together in quite that way before, not even during finals week in the dorms. 

"Do we abort the mission?"

"Do we—" Maxine turns to stare at him. "Sam, we’re not trying to hack into the Pentagon." 

He’s spared having to come up with a response by the laughter that bubbles out of the speakers. 

"I knew it," Eugene says, smacking the table with a flattened palm. 

"So you weren’t really interested in getting to know me?" Reza says, deadpan.

"Oh God, sorry. That sounds horrible doesn’t it?" Eugene sort of laughs, sort of groans, leaning back in his chair. "Though I guess I should be insulted that you don’t really think I’m cute."

"I wouldn’t say that." Reza’s straight face cracks into a smile. "Look, it’s not you. I’m not looking for a relationship right now."

"You’re telling me."

"I figure with the zombies and everything there’s enough to adjust to without—" he trails off, frowns at the table top. "I guess you’d know all about that."

Even with the bad picture, Eugene’s smile looks grim. “I might.”

"Sorry."

"Forget it," Eugene jerks his shoulders like he’s physically shaking the words off. "Tell me more about Rajjt’s book. Is it really paranormal historical romance, or is that a rumour?"

"Historical might be a stretch." Reza hesitates. "So, just friends is good, then? Date over?"

"Date over," Eugene agrees, and bends forward again. Almost like he’s reaching for something under the—

The audio feed goes dead.

"Abort mission, Sam," Maxine sighs.

—-

"Which one is Eugene again?" Simon asks, craning his neck to see behind him on the track. It doesn’t slow his stride a bit. They’ll have him out of training and running real missions in no time. Hell, they probably wouldn’t be bothering with the training to start if Abel’s newest runner could reliably remember the difference between north and south. 

"He’s not here," Maxine says, urging her legs faster and trying to ignore the burning sensation building in her chest. Simon’s got a long stride and the cruising speed of a seasoned distance runner. Even before the apocalypse, she was lucky to find time to go out to the park once a week. There’s no comparison. "He works with me at the hospital."

"Me mum always wanted me to marry a doctor," Simon says with a cheesy, too-big grin on his face. "What’s he look like? Is he fit?"

God, where to start with all that. “He’s good looking.”

"How come you don’t date him?" 

"I’ve got a girlfriend," Maxine says, and this time the ache in her chest doesn’t have a thing to do with running. 

"Is  _she_  fit?” Simon asks. 

"About Eugene," Maxine says, too sharp, too snappish. Simon’s grin fades some. He’s a big boy. He can fill in the blanks. Not a lot of obvious possibilities, these days. He’s bound to guess right, or right enough.

"Why are you so keen to set him up?" 

She’s going to have to address the issue sooner or later. Might as well be now. “He lost one of his legs about two months ago. I thought some company might cheer him up.”

For the first time, Simon’s footfalls lose their easy rhythm. “You aren’t much for soft-peddling are you, Dr. Myers?”

"Would you have liked it any better if I sugarcoated it?" Screw pride, everything hurts. She lets herself drop to a walk. Simon follows a few steps later, pauses long enough for her to catch up.

He’s quiet for the rest of the lap. Too much, she should have known better than to lay it all out there like that. She’s almost certainly scared him off, and Eugene would hate being made to sound like a charity case besides.  

If only she hadn’t brought up Paula. 

Maxine’s trying to remember whether Heilyn Bowen’s got a guard shift today when Simon says, contemplative, “On a scale from one to 10, how good looking would you say this Eugene guy is?”

…

"No," Eugene says, not even looking up from where he’s folding the day’s laundry. Even with the state of Abel’s water supply, the hospital needs clean linen. 

"Come on, Eugene," it’s awkward, pacing back and forth in front of him like this, but the rest of the cot he’s sitting on is filled up with crumpled blankets and sheets, which he’s made no effort to move. "Why not?"

"Not interested."

"I’m not saying you have to marry him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun—"

"Just drop it, Maxine, ok?" The sheet in his hands is all twisted up, swathes of greyish fabric knotted around his fingers. "I get the sentiment, I appreciate the gesture, but stop."

"Eugene," half the blankets go tumbling off the edge of the cot when she sweeps them aside to sit. At least the floor’s been swept recently, "Look, I know it’s a rough time for you."

"Yeah, that’s enough," the sheet slips out from between his fingers, pools onto the concrete like the others and Eugene grabs for his crutches. He still hasn’t met her eyes. "I’m going to go."

She’ll give credit where it’s due. His strides are as even and easy as she’s seen them when he stalks out of the tent.  

…

"So are we done-done?" Sam asks over room-temperature lentil soup and fruit punch some hours later. "Is it over?"

"I don’t know," Maxine sighs, pushing her spoon through her bowl in aimless, circular patterns. 

"Well, we should figure that out," the juice box is sweet enough to make his teeth feel gritty. Probably staining his tongue all pink, too. Would be bad form to check now, though. "Janine’s asking after those cameras she lent us."

"Right," she slumps forward, elbow on the table and chin propped up with one hand. And it’s not actually the most tired Sam’s ever seen her — she’s probably slept in the last three days at least, this time — but she looks it more sitting here than she ever has in the operating theatre. 

"There’s always Heilyn Bowen," Sam suggests. 

"I don’t think that’s going to cut it," Maxine says, not even rising to the bait a little. "Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should forget the whole thing."

"Why don’t we give him a break?" One last suck of the straw and the juice is replaced with air rushing through plastic. He wonders if Maxine’s going to drink hers. "Maybe he won’t be so grumpy next week."

For a second, Maxine almost smiles. “Have you met Eugene?” 

"I guess, though… I’d be mad too, you know?" he shrugs, drops his eyes to his plate where he can’t see her expression. "I mean, I am mad, some days. If I think too hard about mum and dad and how things," he coughs, tries to clear the block in his throat. Can’t. "And I’ve still got my legs."

Maxine doesn’t say anything. 

"Yeah, that wasn’t very good back up, was it? Sorry. Bad friend, I know."

A hand settles over his. Sam’s never noticed before, but it’s amazing how clean she’s managed to keep her nails. “I didn’t know you felt that way.” 

"I kind of thought everyone did." Except maybe Janine. Sam’s pretty sure Janine’s a universal constant. Like the speed of light in a vacuum. She probably doesn’t even change temperature when she’s down with the flu. "Aren’t you mad sometimes?"

Maxine takes her hand back. Holds it in her lap instead, clasped with its opposite, fingers all knotted together. 

"Yeah," she says. "Sometimes."

…

Five or so days later she’s eating a late breakfast protein bar alone between shifts of bandaging and stitching when Sam comes barrelling into the hospital at full tilt, so much built up momentum behind him that he nearly flips himself head over heels across the examination table. 

"You have to come to the comms shack." His face is all red and he’s wildly out of breath. He must have come here at a sprint.

"Sam, what’s the matter?" Too many possibilities. One of the runners. A new refugee. Or — no, that’s ridiculous. Sam wouldn’t even know what Paula looks like.

"Something amazing is happening. I can’t describe it. You have to come see," he grabs for her hand, gives her a tug forward. 

Alice is sitting in Sam’s chair in the comms shack, headset on and legs up on the desk like she’s never been allowed to sit even once. Maxine isn’t even finished giving Sam a look before he’s turned a bright tomato shade of red.

"She’s watching the scanners for me," he mumbles.

"Sure she is," Maxine can’t help but shoot back before the urgency of their run across the quad fills her mind again. "Sam, what’s going on? Should I have brought my first aid kit?"

"It’s Runner Three," Alice says, letter the headset drop to the desk and kicking herself away with enough force that the chair scoots a foot and bangs into the opposite wall of the shack. Even Sam can’t help but wince. 

"Simon? What happened?" She darts to the screen, not that she’s all that great at reading the information off Sam’s monitors yet. Damn it, damn it. Janine and Evan only gave him his runner number a few days ago. Should she have kept him in training longer? He’d seemed so sure of himself on the track, and they’ve been desperate for new bodies since Stuart put himself down after he got bit. God, they’ve already cycled through so many Runners Fives. The last thing Abel needs is for Three to become a cursed designation as well.

"Sam, what did you tell her was happening?" Alice sounds exasperated. "Simon’s fine."

"He’s not hurt?" she can’t decide whether she wants to smack Sam in the face of hug him from sheer relief. 

"Oh God, sorry. I didn’t even think—" If anything, Sam actually gets redder in the face. "How about I just route the sound through the external speakers? Um, give me second."

He reaches past her, pulling a keyboard out of the mess of wires and headsets and empty foil bags that look like they might have held dried seaweed sheets at one point. A couple rapid, clattering keystrokes and the air is filled with the sounds of—

_"There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando…"_

"So he wasn’t kidding the ABBA obsession," Maxine sighs. "What’s he doing?"

"Look at the one on your right," Sam says, indicating the biggest of the screens and tapping a few more keys until the picture switches from six small frames to a single grainy shot of Runner Three headed towards the camera, arms filled to brimming with wildflowers.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes," Alice chimes in.

"I need a microphone," she paws at the desktop. There’s an old USB mic on its side, unplugged, amidst the debris. Nothing else that resembles an audio input. "Sam, some help?"

Sam is very busy studying the tops of his own shoes. “Use the headset?”

She jams the headset over her ears, tugs the flexible wire of the mic into position. “Runner Three, Simon, this is Dr. Myers. Can you hear me?”

"Hey, what’s up doc?" Is that… Bugs Bunny, really? Not important. Runner Three’s headed for Abel Township at top speed. She doesn’t have much time.

"Simon," the key is to be reasonable, to keep her temper, to not, under any circumstances, cuss their newest runner out like he’s an intern who’s forgotten to wash up before surgery. "Who are the flowers for?"

"Oh these?" he grins in not quite the direction of the camera. "Reckon Eugene’ll like them?"

Maxine lets herself indulge in a brief fantasy of breaking some sort of glass bottle over his head. One of the heavy, old fashioned ones Janine dragged up from the farmhouse cellar to use for solar water purification. “Runner Three, we talked about this, remember? The mission is off. Eugene doesn’t want to go on a date.”

"Well, of course he doesn’t want to go out with a complete stranger," Simon says in reasonable tones. "Got to give him the full Lauchlan experience first."

Behind her, someone stifles a laugh. 

"Simon." Calm. Rational. She’ll count backwards from ten, if need be. "Simon, no."

"Sam I Am, I’m on the home stretch. Any chance of getting these gates up?"

"I will strangle you with this cord if you touch anything," Maxine says, flat, when Sam moves towards of the controls. "Flowers down."

"Doctor—"

"Drop the flowers," Maxine says, "and no one gets hurt."

"I could give them to our fearless leader instead," Simon suggests. "Nothing goes with coveralls and bolt cutters like a pretty poesy."

"No."

"What about our other fearless leader? Nothing goes with a military uniform like—"

"Major de Santa’s up north again," Maxine says. "And no."

"Fine," the township’s security camera is of a slightly better quality than most. When Simon finally lets the flowers drop, she’s got a beautiful shot of it. "Can I come in now?"

When she pulls off the headphones her hair feels packed down and frizzy at the same time. “Raise the gates, Sam.” 

She’s halfway out of the shack, listening to the buzz of the gate alarms, when Simon says “think he’d like some maple syrup instead?”

Some days Maxine would just kill for a goddamn cigarette.

…

She finds Eugene in the curtained off portion of the hospital that’s more-or-less functioning as her office — minus a real desk, filing cabinets, or any furniture save for a couple folding chairs, the card table and a magazine rack — making a not-very impressive show of trying to touch his toes. 

"If you only hold your stretch for two seconds you’re not going to get anything out of," she points out as she steps over his leg to slide into the nearer of the chairs. 

"I’m working on it," he bends at the waist again, though with the way his fingers flex Maxine can see he’s letting his arms do most of the work. Range of motion’s better than the last time he let her check up on him, though. All those walks around the quad must be starting to take. 

She should leave him be. Let time do the repair work here. But she didn’t get to be good at her job by letter her patients flail around like that when a little nudge would do. “Can I adjust your form?” 

He gives her a look, considering. Making her wait for it. “Sure.”

The floor is cool against her palms when she eases herself down, a contrast to Eugene, who seems like he’s running slightly hot when she touches his side. “You need to do the work from here. Use your arms for balance, not length.”

Eugene grunts at the change, going stiff and still even as he’s trembling slightly with the effort of holding the stretch.

"Breathe," Maxine says.

"Got it," the words come out in a rush of breath, so that’s something at least. Eugene pulls back up too soon, but it’s a start. Better than before. "If I’d known you were coming I would have started with something easier than the planks."

That explains the flushed look, then. Good. “You’re making progress.”

"I know," he angles his head just enough to make it clear he’s looking her way, lips tipping up into the smallest possible smile. "Thanks, though."

God, they might be having a moment.

"I should apologize," Maxine says, before she can talk herself out of it.

"Oh."

"For trying to set you up," she pauses but no, it doesn’t look like he wants to say anything. Times like this, would it kill Eugene to be talkative? "I should have asked you what you wanted to begin with."

"Hey, forget it," he shrugs, looks away, body language going from almost relaxed to surprisingly shy. "Like I said, I got what you were trying to do."

"Then I should apologize because I think Simon might be trying to seduce you with syrup," Maxine says. "Sorry about that."

It’s difficult to come up with a word that encompasses the full scope of Eugene’s expression. Stumped? Befuddled? Confounded? Poleaxed? Poleaxed, maybe. 

"Really sorry," Maxine says again.

…

The zombie in the unfortunate blue apron crumples to the floor with a final rattling moan, and Simon lets both the wire candy rack he’s been using to hold it at bay and the heavy tin of beef stew now covered in bits of brain drop to the floor, ignoring the clamour.

"Nice work, Runner Three," through the headset, Sam sounds as shaken up as if he’d been the one to beat an undead cashier until its skull split. "Really — um. Really nice."

"Next time, I’m bringing a bat," Simon says. His whole right arm is a mess now. Worse on his fingers, of course, what with the hair and the bits of bone and slime, but the splashes of brown and grey extend all the way to the the shoulder of his shirt. Hopefully the poor dead bastard on the floor had a spare change of clothes in the back somewhere.

The corner shop is surprisingly untouched, minus the evidence of his own skirmish. In the thin light coming through the windows Simon can see rows and rows of tins on the shelves, a cooler still filled with bottled water. A single zombie guard kept all this safe? That won’t last long. Don’t have to be psychic to see desperation coming if this drags out much longer.

"What do reckon, Sam?" he steps over the zom, soles of his trainers squeaky faintly on the tile. "Food or drink first?"

"Janine says to focus on proteins," Sam says. "Can you look for something other than beans and SPAM?"

"That the official line, or a personal request?" 

Sam mutters something that is noncommittal in the extreme. 

"Fish it is," Simon says, swinging his pack around by the straps and heading down what looks like the appropriate aisle. 

He’s unzipped the bag and swept most of a row of tinned tuna off the shelf when there’s movement at the edge of his vision. The pack hits the floor with a crash of metal and Simon spins on his heel, looking for another weapon. Damn it, damn it. He should never have come out empty-handed. It’s a bloody stupid way to die.

"Runner Three," Sam says, too late, "there’s something  in the back corner. I can’t get a fix on what—"

"Got it," he hisses. "Think it’s spotted me?"

"Can’t tell," Sam sounds tense. Simon wishes he were better at hiding his panic. That stuff’s contagious in the field. "Grab what you can and get out of there."

A flash of motion, closer now. A blur of red ducks round the corner of a set of shelves, disappearing down another aisle before Simon can get a good look or register much more than the faint sound of another set of rubber soles squeaking against the floor. 

"Not a zom," he mumbles back. "Going to go have a look."

"Three—"

Simon shoves the headset off to dangle around his neck, muffling if not entirely silencing Sam’s protest. Easier to hear whoever’s in here with him, though, even if all he’s got is footsteps and what might be the sound of his own heavy breathing.

"Hello?"

No response, but for a moment he can see a sliver of a pale, wide-eyed face above the top of the shelf. Whoever’s there, it’s clear they’re more afraid than he is. Advantage, him.

"It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you," he tries to keep his voice low, soothing, and hopes the slow, deliberate pace of his steps covers the way he’s bracing for an attack. "I’m from the settlement up on the hill. Just out looking for supplies, same as you probably. Nothing to worry about here."

The head pokes up again, a little higher this time. Shock of orange hair and a wide, freckled face. Younger than him, he’d guess, but not by more than five years. Expression’s still wary as hell, but at least Simon can see him now.

The man opens his mouth as if to speak, then hesitates, wets his lips. 

"What’s your name?" Simon asks. Best to start with an easy one.

"Jack," his voice is soft, raspy. Been a while since he used it, Simon bets. 

"Well, Jack," he takes a few steps more, turns on his new-customer smile and injects a bit more warmth into his voice, "how’s it back there? You’re not bit, are you?"

Jack shakes his head, eyes tracking Simon’s movements like a stray cat watching a particularly plump beetle. 

"Why don’t you come on out?" And put your hands where I can see them, he doesn’t add out loud. "Come on, there’s a good lad."

It takes more wheedling and coaxing, but Jack works his way down the shelving unit soon enough, stepping out in the clearing in front of the cash register and revealing the stained, splintery cricket bat clutched white-knuckle in both hands. 

"I see you’ve brought a friend," Simon says, and shifts his weight to the balls of his feet. 

"Huh?" Jack stares at him, blank, just a hair too long before his eyes drop to the bat. "Oh. That’s not… just careful, s’all."

Simon takes stock again. Too thin in the face, cheeks starting to sink in and eyes lined from too many sleepless nights. But there’s muscle yet in his arms, and he’s holding that bat like he knows what he’s doing. Could be something there.

"You any good at running, Jack?"

Another pause just a half a beat too long, but when Jack smiles it’s amazing the life that comes back to his face. “Aren’t we all these days?”

"That’s what I like to hear," Simon says. In the headphones, Sam’s shouting at him again. Going to be even more of that in a minute. "You ever thought about looking for a new place to live?"

…

"Janine made me take the cameras down," Sam says, frowning down at his cards. "Got any twos?" 

"Go fish," Maxine says, ignoring the two of spades mostly obscured in her hand by a ten of hearts. Sam’s never going to learn anything about cards if he doesn’t learn about cheating too. "Any queens?"

"Damn," he slides a queen of diamonds and the queen of hearts across the empty cot-turned-table. "So that’s it, we’re all done? No more dates?"

"No more dates," Maxine agrees. "Unless—"

"Ask her if she has any sixes," Eugene says, suddenly, from behind her. 

"Well, doc, what do you say?" Sam asks.

"Did you want something?" Maxine sighs, glare turned on Eugene even as she slides three cards across the bed. 

"I got the new supplies packed away." He smirks, as though Maxine’s glares haven’t made surgeons and ambulance drivers and at least one gutshot drug dealer who wouldn’t get off his damn phone wilt. "You need anything else done?"

"I think that’s it." She goes over the hospital in her head. No serious patients in residence, no laundry to fold, nothing to clean that’s best done on crutches, even if their owner’s turning into a surprisingly stealthy property. Only thing left is — oh, right. “Simon brought in a live one yesterday. Go let him out of quarantine for me?”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “I hate that quarantine area.”

"You’d hate an outbreak more," Maxine reminds him. The Major’s latest decree — full physical and 24 hours in isolation for new refugees — isn’t her most popular, and will probably go all to hell the second they stumble on more than half a dozen people they can’t leave outside the walls, but she can’t deny there’s value there. "Got any eights?"

"Go fish."

Above her head, Eugene holds his palms up, all ten fingers spread wide. Maxine pulls her cards against her chest and reminds herself the Hippocratic Oath forbids her from pulling his crutches out from under him.  “Go, release the prisoner.”

Eugene snaps a salute and heads off at least twice as noisily as he’d arrived.

"We never did get round to Heilyn Bowen," Sam sighs. 

"No," Maxine agrees.

"Unless," Sam perks up, "you did say ‘unless.’"

"Actually, I was thinking," she glances at her cards, shuffling a set of misplaced sevens into a pair, "how would feel about some help with Alice?"

…

The quarantine isn’t much more than a supply closet in the back of the armoury, though at least it’s big enough for a bed. Of all the things he missed in the standard Abel Township welcome package, Eugene’s most grateful for this one. Even with the generator on, the light is dim at best, painting the concrete a grimy orange and throwing the isolation room all in shadow.

He squints through the little bit of chicken wire set in the closet door, and can just make out the shape in the corner, sitting on the floor. 

"Hey."

The shape raises its head. “Is the party over?” 

That settles it clear enough. Zombies don’t do sarcasm. He pushes back the bolts, lets the door swing wide. “Come on out.”

The guy in the corner unfolds himself slowly, letting his legs fall long before pushing to his feet. “Hm, after that box I was expecting a better opening line. Something dramatic.” 

"Right." Eugene forces the smile tugging at his lips off his face, fixes the still-shadowed man with his sternest expression. "Come with me if you want to live?"

The figure in the dark comes out of quarantine cackling, head tipped back, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.” He thrusts out a hand, flashes a smile that, like his laugh, is far too big for the joke that came before it. “Jack.”

They shake.

"Eugene."


End file.
